


ALL THE UNSAID THINGS

by vanhunks



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, picture prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 16:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10312727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanhunks/pseuds/vanhunks
Summary: Post Endgame. Chakotay and Janeway have each gone their own way after they arrived in the Alpha Quadrant. Now, many years later Chakotay lies dying on Dorvan. Keeping a vigil is his son Kolopak. Will Chakotay recover?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the VAMB Winter Picture Prose Contest.
> 
> Story betaread by Mary who really did a great job!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters Janeway and Chakotay.

* * *

* * *

His father lay, eyes closed, although Kolopak knew he was still awake. Chakotay's chest rose and fell, a welcome relief that his father was at least still breathing. Kolopak smiled grimly. Chakotay now looked exactly like his own father for whom his son had been named. His hair was long and grey, the dimples sunken to long furrows, his lips thin and his once great frame emaciated.

It won't be long, Kolopak thought. His father was ill and the will to fight had left him. For a moment he wished he could understand fully the power which drove Chakotay and which seemed to be no longer there. He had never known his father as one who gave up easily.

Chakotay lay with his hands resting on the light coverlet with its ornate Dorvan. On the bed stand only a framed painting rested. Kolopak had looked at it a hundred times and still could not divine the significance in his father's life. He knew it was not a gift from his mother. Annika Hansen was too cold for that, too lacking in the sentiments that drove humans. A winter scene of a beautiful bridge that curved over a river, flanked by two giant maples, their branches weighed down by snow. It was a nice enough picture, thought Kolopak. He didn't understand its implication, but to Chakotay it meant the world.

Now his father's hand reached for the painting. Thin, bony fingers trembled as he tried to take it. Leaning over, Kolopak took it and placed it in Chakotay's hand. With surprising strength Chakotay clutched it to his chest and then as his breathing sagged again, a shallow rise and fall of his chest. Now the older man seemed at peace.

High noon on Dorvan was blazingly hot, the sun burning on too sensitive skin. In appearance Kolopak looked like his mother, Nordic, with hair bleached almost white, eyes grey. Outwardly there was nothing that resembled his father, not even the vaunted dimples of his forebears. But in spirit, in wholeness of being, everything that defined Chakotay, defined him too. Something his mother could never understand. He was proud to be Chakotay's son, proud of his heritage.

Kolopak listened to the buzzing of the cicadas. He'd forgotten how the sound could travel on a clear, cloudless day. This world, so unforgiving to those not born here, was home to all who immersed themselves in its culture, its ways, surviving in the harsh conditions. He couldn't imagine his father holding on to a little painting that depicted winter. He, Kolopak was never afraid of Dorvan's desert conditions. His love for the land was what kept him returning to Dorvan after every mission into deep space. Here he could meditate, find a remote part of the planet and seclude himself from the world.

But now his mission was to keep a vigil.

"Are you still here?" Chakotay asked.

"I'm not going anywhere, Father. Aunt Sekaya and Nala are resting. I'm afraid you'll have to do with my company."

Chakotay's eyes opened slowly. "I always enjoy your company," he heaved, then coughed.

"Hey, take it easy."

His father's eyes closed again, yet Kolopak couldn't help but notice how Chakotay held the painting so close to him, as if it was a long lost love, a beloved gone from his life.

"Tell me about the woman who gave you the painting, Father," he asked quietly. If only to get Chakotay talking, to see the rise and fall of his chest and not hear the angry wheezing. He knew who had given his father the painting, a subject that had remained closed for years, but he asked anyway.

The older man's breathing eased a little. Then he opened his eyes and gazed at Kolopak.

"I married your mother."

Kolopak smiled. "I know, Father. You always tell me that." And Kolopak knew that it meant something like, "Isn't that enough?"  It was the only time  Chakotay responded with a kind of cynicism, although he masked it well. Kolopak didn't take offence, for Annika Hansen was a good mother. But it was never enough, he thought. There was not a man or woman on Dorvan or those in Starfleet Command and the Academy who knew how his father suffered silently. Kolopak had known from a very early age that Chakotay's love was not for his mother, although no one would have guessed otherwise. They gave their only son their undisguised love, and Annika Hansen never lacked in the affection her husband bestowed on her. Once, just before she died, she told him that she was satisfied, that she held no grudge, that Chakotay was kind, loyal and respectful of their marriage. But she always believed that the captain of the legendary Voyager held the key to Chakotay's heart.

Kathryn Janeway. Admiral. Married Cameron Campbell. One daughter Melissa nicknamed Missy, Lieutenant Senior Grade, science officer on the USS Williamsburg.

"And?" he asked, hoping his father would reveal something of his pain to his son.

Chakotay's eyes opened wearily. "Kathryn gave me this," he said, lifting the painting. 

"A long time ago, I guess."

"Long ago."

"Why?"

"Friendship!" the words broke from him in a paroxysm of coughing. "I swear by the spirits," Chakotay continued once the coughing eased, "I saw something different in her eyes!"

"You know what it was."

"More than friendship. Better than friendship! It was clear in her eyes, what she felt for me. I never asked…" he said, the words trailing away on a wave of sadness.

"You loved her, father, from the very beginning."

"Who told you that?"

"Mother."

"She did? Annika?"

"She was resigned to be enough, as she called it. I am not offended, you know. I join all who wanted to see Chakotay marry Kathryn."

"I married your mother and Kathryn married Campbell." Chakotay sighed deeply and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

"I know."

"The painting is called _'The unsaid things'_ " Chakotay said when he looked at his son again.

"That is an unusual name for a painting that depicts winter - "

"That is the point, son. We never - "

Chakotay was quiet again. While it looked like he’d rallied, Kolopak was in no doubt that he was likely the last to keep a vigil. He felt a great, great aching sadness in him. Chakotay was every young man's idol, mentor, the dream of having as a role model. He had that with Chakotay. A terrific relationship which he treasured.

How tragic it was then that his father and Admiral Janeway never allowed their feelings to burst through the protocols of command!

"You never told her you loved her."

Chakotay turned his head to look at Kolopak.

"She told me how she once visited a place - it was somewhere in Japan, I think - where she stood on the bridge in the picture. She described the scene to me one evening…"

"Was this early Voyager days?"

"No, perhaps in our fourth or fifth year. We were great friends, had dinner in each other's quarters. She spoke of that place with such longing, Kolopak. I asked her why, of all the places on Earth that she'd visited, little Kishuru meant so much to her."

Kolopak smiled, glad his father was talking much more freely than he'd ever done in his life about a subject that had always been taboo.

"What, good Father, did Kathryn Janeway say?"

"She told me how she'd made a wish. It was before Mark, the fiancé she once had, maybe even before Justin Tighe. She told me how, if she stood on the bridge again one day, it would be with the man who understood her heart and her soul."

"I guess she never went back there."

"I told her to recreate the scene on the holodeck, or make something lasting of the image."

"Hence this painting."

"Yes. I wanted to tell her that I understood her soul, how I felt. Always I saw the hesitation in her eyes, but that day when she gave me the painting, I knew."

"Knew what, Father?"

"That the light in her eyes, that which she felt for me, would be overshadowed soon. But it brought peace into my heart that I knew how she felt. I couldn't tell her then. We never spoke about all the things that we knew bound us together in heart, in spirit, in soul, son."

Kolopak was aware that his mother had seen the picture sometimes but never commented on it. It had remained hidden for years among his father's personal effects. He had himself never seen it until a few weeks ago after his father had taken ill. Aunt Sekaya had put it on the bed stand when Chakotay had asked for it.

"Then it became too late to speak," said Kolopak, "to say all those things you wanted to say to one another."

"Aye, son. It became easier to mask them and convince ourselves that we had only one mission - to get Voyager home."

"Then you married Annika Hansen."

"It was good what we had, you understand? We had a son we both loved…"

Then Chakotay got that faraway look in his eyes again. He looked exhausted, his breathing shallow as if he'd run a great distance. Kolopak stayed with him until his father drifted into an uneasy slumber. Then he rose slowly, stiff and creaking. He needed to stretch his legs outside, feel the sun on him, hear the cicadas that had started their buzzing again.

And wait for someone.

So he stood outside the front door, shielding his eyes with his hand, staring down the street. He couldn't move away from the house since his aunt and cousin had left and would return only later in the evening.

He felt slightly restless, peering down the long dusty road. Travellers entering the village usually appeared at the very top end of the road. So he waited.

He loved his father, and the prospect of losing one of the great men in the Federation, who was also a loving and devoted father, was daunting. It filled him with trepidation. He was just ten years old when his mother died. He'd taken her death in his stride. Perhaps it was because she was not the driving force in his life, not the parent who instilled in him the values of humanity, that he was able to absorb the sadness of her passing. From her he inherited his scientific curiosity, although Chakotay had similar interests. By the time a year had passed, Seven of Nine was a gentle memory, a person whom he loved, but not as fiercely as he loved his father.

Now Chakotay lay dying. For the second time in his life, attacked by an unknown virus that piggybacked on the old recurring 'mad' gene that had beset the men in his family for generations. And so he eventually refused all medication, knowing that this time his body would be too weak to fight. He looked so ill, Kolopak thought. So ill! And if his visitors didn't arrive soon…

Then in the distance he could see two figures approaching. His heart gave a sudden lurch but he didn't move from his spot on the small porch. The sounds of the cicadas drifted in and out of his consciousness and Kolopak thought that if he lived through the day, and if their fortunes changed in the next year or years, he would remember this day when Missy Janeway-Campbell arrived with her mother. Missy's hand hovered near Admiral Janeway's elbow as she negotiated the street, gripping  her walking stick. Their eyes met, a warmth spreading through him as they stopped in front of him.

****

Kathryn Janeway walked slowly, glad of Missy's company and her support. She'd declined being transported from the shuttle to the house and preferred  walking with Missy next to her. She'd quite forgotten how hot it could become on Dorvan, remembering the only time she'd been here. When Seven of Nine passed away, she'd come to commiserate with Chakotay and their ten year old son, Kolopak. She remembered mainly Chakotay’s sorrow and Kolopak's stoic acceptance of his mother's death.

Missy had informed her of Chakotay's illness, told her how he lay near dying on Dorvan, and that Kolopak had asked if she could come to Dorvan to be with him, to be with an old friend. She stumbled as she thought of the message and how Missy had emphasized the 'old friend' who longed for her, although he’d never quite said it, according to Kolopak.

"Are you okay, Mom?" Missy asked.

"I'm fine, honey. When did you say Kolopak called you?"

Missy thought her mother knew exactly when Kolopak hailed them, but Kathryn Janeway needed to collect her thoughts, needed to keep talking. Her mother had become aloof and brooding lately and Missy knew it somehow must have to do with the man everyone said she should have married, according to Aunt B'Elanna and Uncle Tom.

"You know when, Mom. I told you, remember? Three days ago on subspace. Kolopak sounded distressed."

Kathryn paused to look at her daughter, her eyes narrowing. Any sentence with Kolopak's name in it made her girl's eyes light up. Her daughter by the man Kathryn married six months after their return to the Alpha Quadrant.

Melissa Gretchen Janeway. Science officer of the USS Williamsburg. Melissa looked like her and Cameron, though Kathryn always swore she looked more like her mother with the same colour hair and eyes. Poor Cameron. When he caught ill on Taurus IV during a diplomatic mission, no one had expected him to go so soon after becoming sick. She mourned her husband. He was a good man, gave her a good life and gave her Melissa whom he'd called Missy from the start.

But Cameron was gone now. Although widowed so many years, silence had fallen between her and Chakotay. The chasm between them had become too deep to cross, even though both of them were free. They'd drifted into a new kind of protocol - work for the Federation to the best of your ability and to the exclusion of self. It was Voyager all over again. She shook her head, stumbled, then straightened herself, to Missy's concern.

"Mom! Careful!"

"I am. No need to worry so. You sound just like - "

"Him?"

"Your father?"

"Chakotay."

And Missy fell silent beside her mother. What more could be said that had not been said, written about, gossiped, wondered, speculated, maligned, discredited, honoured about Kathryn Janeway and her first officer Chakotay? She had grown up hearing these tales, often at the receiving end of unhealthy gossip. She'd cried herself to sleep on occasion and never told her mother how speculation and simple, well meaning questions hurt her for she never ever wanted to dishonour her own father. How could she speak to her father about the taunts? Cameron Campbell had been an innocent onlooker, and it was unfair to involve a man who loved her mother and who loved her.

But the stories filled the pages of Federation news outlets - a famous friendship that everyone thought would culminate in marriage, breaking every romantic speculator's heart. They loved, they lost, people said. And she, Missy Janeway, had to listen or read about it or reply to inquisitive individuals who wanted to know why her mother didn't marry Chakotay.

What could she tell her friends and colleagues? She got so tired of hearing it she tuned them all out and became what they accused her of later  - you're just like your mother, uptight little smarty-pants. And Missy sighed. If it weren't for Kolopak…

"I worry because I love you, Mother," Missy said at length.

"And I love you, you know that. I’m not sorry you are my daughter, Melissa. So tell me, when did you and Kolopak Hansen have time to discuss their parents behind their backs? Hmmm?"

Missy smiled. "Mother! Look, we're here."

Indeed, they had reached the house of Chakotay where Kolopak stood on the porch.  Kathryn Janeway stared at him, a long, hard stare at the young man who looked so like Annika Hansen.

Kolopak Magnus Hansen. Son of Chakotay and Seven of Nine. Starfleet officer. Every accolade that could be awarded to an Academy cadet, a Starfleet ensign, a young lieutenant and now first officer of the USS Nagasaki, a Constitution class starship currently captained by Tom Paris, had been given this young man. He had come through her hands at the Academy, so much of Chakotay in him that it was sometimes hard to separate father from son. Top cadet in everything. Truly the brightest and the best.

_He should have been mine. Mine._

For a few moments, as Kathryn gazed at Kolopak, her heart simmered with what might have been. How many times on Voyager did she not teeter on the brink of telling Chakotay how she felt? To tie her destiny forever with his? The regret had left her with the old bitter taste in her mouth for years, even long after she married Cameron Campbell. Constantly reminded of what she'd lost, thrown away, wallowing in self-pity, she'd done what she'd done best when on Voyager: masked her sorrow, masked every regret at throwing away happiness.

She'd come close once, remembering an evening of quietude in Chakotay's quarters after a particularly difficult day…

"Have you ever been to a place where you found solitude?" she'd asked him. "No, strike that. You go to places on Earth. Sorry - "

"Okay, what about you?"

She'd paused a few moments, then seeing his concerned frown, plucked up the courage to tell him of her special place.

"It's a place in Japan - "

"Japan?"

"Called Kishuru."

"There was a beautiful little bridge spanning a stream, and on each bank grew giant maples. It was winter, and the snow falling on the branches weighed them down, so that it looked like they were bowing. It filled me with peace - "

"How old were you then?"

"Young, my first year as an ensign, I suppose."

"Let me guess," Chakotay'd said, "you made a wish."

She'd smiled at the way he always knew what she was thinking.

"I did. I vowed that day that the next time I stood there, it would be with a man I loved beyond my own life, who understood me, who shared my heart, my mind and my soul."

"Have you ever taken someone there?" Chakotay'd asked.

"No."

"Justin? Mark?"

There had been a long pause during which she'd stared out the viewport at the streaking stars.

"Kathryn?" he'd asked at length.

"No."

"Perhaps," Chakotay had suggested, allowing her response to sink in, "you could do a holodeck creation of Kishuru, a memory for you?"

She hadn't answered. A few weeks later she presented him with a painting, about the size of a PADD, hoping against hope that he could understand, for words of devotion were difficult for her. So difficult.

But she'd sensed that Chakotay would know, would see into her heart.

After that words were lost, things never said that became part of the charade into which they'd fallen for the rest of their journey. They'd settled into a silence that at times was unsettling and at others pleasing.

Chakotay married Seven of Nine and she'd given her blessing even when it hurt into the depths of her soul. Later, when they'd returned home, she'd met Cameron Campbell, a kind man who sensed her loneliness. He loved her, they married and got on with their lives. She gave birth to a beautiful baby girl they both adored, and so Melissa became the balm to her broken dreams.

Kolopak Hansen, Chakotay's son. Would that he was theirs.

Then Kathryn glanced at Missy and swallowed her bourgeoning sorrow. Missy, her beloved daughter. And Kathryn thought how she was here because Chakotay was dying. She was here because Kolopak wanted her to come, because there were no more secrets. There were not supposed to be any anymore because Annika Hansen died long ago and Cameron had passed away after a short illness six years ago.

Her heart hammered, her hand clutching Missy's jerking a little.

"Come, Mother," Missy whispered next to her.

They stepped on to the porch. Kolopak stood at the door, a look of relief in his eyes.

"Admiral Janeway," he began, holding out his hand in greeting, "I am glad you could come." Then Kolopak nodded to Missy. "Please, do come in. It is very hot, though I cannot make excuses for the weather," he said.

"Commander - "

"Please, it's Kolopak." The young man smiled, every inch like Annika Hansen. A warmth spread through Kathryn.

"Thank you, Kolopak. It's not as if we do not know one another, eh?

"You were a hard taskmaster, Admiral. Captain Paris always speaks very highly of you."

"Thank you. Now, can - can you take me to - to him?" she asked in a stammer, leaning heavily on her walking stick.

"Mom…"

"I'll be okay, honey," Kathryn reassured her daughter. Then she directed her gaze at Kolopak. "Please?"

"He is very ill, Admiral. I - think he needs you."

Kolopak guided them down a passage and stopped in front of an open door. They could see the great bed on which Chakotay lay, his hands folded across his chest

"Chakotay…" Kathryn whispered, all the pain of the world in her voice, a sheen of tears in her eyes. She turned to Missy and Kolopak. "You can leave…"

"You're sure, Mom?"

"I'll be fine," she said, a smile hovering at the corner of her mouth. "Go!"

When they left, Kathryn walked in slowly until she reached the bed, tears springing into her eyes as she looked at the man she had loved so hopelessly for so long. She sat down on the chair, relieved to put her cane to one side. Kathryn was shocked at Chakotay's appearance. His hair had grown long, like his father's, his face gaunt. The open window let in a welcome breeze, diminishing the air of sickness that always hovered in the room of the very ill.

Her heart wanted to break. Over the years their paths had crossed many times, but the Chakotay she remembered, despite grey hair and healthy, glowing appearance, was absent from this man who had been her best friend. She closed her eyes in a brief, fervent little prayer that she was not too late. He stirred slightly under the hand that rested against his cheek.

_Dear God, please let him need me…_

"Chakotay," she urged, feeling the burn of tears, "it's me, Kathryn." 

She leaned over to touch his hand in a gentle caress, at the same time brushing her lips against his. When he stirred again, hope flared inside her.

Only then did she notice the painting she had given him a lifetime ago on Voyager. Pulling it from his fingers, she held it up and looked at Kishuru, her mystical place of love's avowal. Her tears ran down her cheeks as she gazed at the little bridge with the maple trees covered in winter's snow. She imagined standing there, like she had on a day so long ago. She imagined the air of quietude that surrounded the scene, how the branches bent under the weight of the snow, how there was not a single person around and her own breathing the only sound. She loved it so, and had wished that someone could share what she admired.

And she remembered how Chakotay had gazed at it, never saying a word.

"You kept this," she sobbed softly, "all these years…"

Chakotay opened his eyes slowly, the fever rampant in them. But he seemed to recognise her. He did recognise her! She drew in her breath sharply.

_He looks so ill…_

"Kathryn? You have come." The words were laboured, pushed through narrowed lips, sounding as if he'd long dreamed of her.

She kept her gaze on his beloved face with a freedom that rose in her like a tidal wave. Then she held up the painting.

"Always, Chakotay," she began slowly, "I have imagined you standing with me on the bridge in Kishuru. Always."

"I knew that was how you felt. We made our lives, Kathryn, and they were good ones," he said, his voice a little stronger, "but never has there been a breath I've taken that didn't have you riding on it."

He couldn't stop gazing at her, couldn't stop his hand from touching hers, or touching her cheek that rested so close to his. A sob rose from deep inside him as he held her in that moment paused in time.

"Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn," her name tore from him in an unending litany, her sobs joining his.

Finally, when they'd both calmed, Kathryn sat back, but he wouldn't have it. So she rested her head against his chest, turning her face to look into his.

"You are very ill, Chakotay. Kolopak told us you are dying," she said.

He gripped her hand tightly in his, or as tightly as his weakened state would allow. "Kathryn, let Doc Zimmerman know he has a patient."

"Chakotay?"

"If he could resurrect Neelix," Chakotay reminded her with his old fire, "he can fix me."

Kathryn's laugh was something of a joyful sob. "I'll be with you all the way, telling you everything that I should have told you from the start.

"I will get better because you are with me. I know I can."

"All those years on Voyager, all the unsaid things - " she began, but he stilled her with a trembling finger against her lips.

"That is what I called your painting, my love," he told her. "It reminded me constantly of the things we should have said to each other."

"Chakotay…?"

"Yes, my love?"

But she did not answer him. Instead, she lifted the cover and slid under, worming herself against him, sighing deeply when he shifted so that she could be comfortable.

"No more holding back," she whispered. "I love you."

He gave a deep sigh and quietly closed his eyes. Kathryn wormed closer to him and before long she tumbled into sleep.

"Our twilight years will be great, you'll see," he whispered half asleep.

*

Missy Janeway and Kolopak Hansen, wondering how things were progressing in Chakotay's room, stood awestruck as they watched their parents lying in each other's arms, fast asleep. Both sensed immediately that Chakotay, with Kathryn by his side, would invoke the heavens to recover from his illness. Smiling, they left quietly and stood outside on the porch.

"Have you ever wanted someone else to be your father or mother?" Kolopak asked Missy.

"Have you ever wanted someone else to be your mother?" came Missy's rejoinder.

"I had this fantasy, especially at the Academy, that Admiral Janeway was my mother. Like wishing sometimes you had a different name of your own choosing," Kolopak said, smiling down at Missy, who was as short as her mother. "But I loved my mother, you know. And she loved me. It was good for me, to know that."

"I loved my father, Kolopak, but there were times I wished Admiral Chakotay was my dad. You are very lucky…"

"But?" he ventured.

"Cameron Campbell raised me well. When I think about it, he provided me and my mom a haven, you know, more like he wanted to shield us from - from…"

"The ugly talk that always did the rounds whenever my dad visited the Academy to teach?"

"Yes. It's why I loved my dad so much."

"If we had our wishes, we'd be brother and sister and that, my dear Melissa-Missy Gretchen Janeway, will absolutely never, ever do."

They burst out laughing before Kolopak pulled Missy into his arms. He felt an overwhelming urge to protect her as she snuggled against him, her arms tightly around his waist. But she was not only Cameron Campbell's daughter whose grace she’d inherited, but Kathryn Janeway's, and just as deceptively strong and feisty as her mother who would fight his protection as hard as Kathryn Janeway had fought Chakotay.

He'd loved Missy ever since he had seen her as a cadet when he'd been a newly assigned lieutenant junior grade on the USS Copernicus. On shore leave, he'd gone to visit his father in one of Chakotay's rare advanced tactical classes at the Academy. He'd seen Missy and was never the same. Just like when his father saw Kathryn Janeway for the first time.

"Hey…" he murmured, kissing the top of her head.

"Do you think they know about us?" she asked him.

"Missy, they are Janeway and Chakotay. Of course they know!"

*************

 

THE END

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the story was inspired by something a character said/thought in the crime novel "The Beautiful Mystery" by Louise Penny, when he refers to the [married] daughter of his superior "all the things we said and all the unsaid things" because of his hopeless love for her.


End file.
